Greyson Donovan has a unique job description, escort the Heart of Darkness. The Heart being an artifact of cataclysmic proportions. He accomplishes this by aimlessly hauling it across the United States in a muscle car. When someone steals his beloved vehicle and it's contents, Greyson undertakes the task of retrieving it and winds up entangled in a twisted plot that promises to condemn reality as we know it.
View table of contents...

Chapters:

What's something that kills billions of people a year and
doesn't sin for it? Cigarettes. I smoke them because aside from
making me look badass I figure I can take it upon myself to
smoke every available cigarette thus purging the world of a
destructive force. Some call it a fool's errand. I call it fun,
besides it isn't like cigarettes can kill me… Really they
can't, that's one of the perks of agelessness. I regenerate
three times faster than the average human and I stay all kinds
of pretty until someone decides shuffle me loose the… immortal
coil. I press the cigarette to my lips and take a drag
illuminating the cherry. Smoke rolls out of my mouth as I catch
a glimpse of my rear view mirror.

"Whoa…" My head jabs backwards. I looked like hell. My unshaven
face bolsters dark scruff that stands out from my light brown
hair. I shall call this look, Le Hobo, What with the grungy
looking dirtball face, rings under the eyes, and a stub of a
cigarette. I just needed a trench coat and sign reading, "Will
Work For Food." I stuff my hand into the pocket of my charcoal
grey hooded jacket and removed an empty plastic cigarette
package.

"Perfect." I whisper to myself as I discard the butt out the
window. When suddenly a billboard catches my eye it reads, "God
is watching." All white with black letters. Who knew the
Almighty was a voyeur? Just below the sign I notice a two sets
of wheels. Well if I'm going to pick up some extra scratch, I
have to do it now. I slowly drive my foot into the gas pedal,
pushing my 67' Shelby into a rampant thrust. Every year I pass
by this strip of road and every year a speed trap exists. It's
like they have the hiding capacity of an ostrich with Down
syndrome. Accepting the blatant idiocy of Edinburgh's finest,
I'm hung up on a decision. Should I go twenty or thirty over?
Sure either will flag his attention, but will the faster of the
two invoke a call to dispatch? As I watch the needle of my
speedometer rapidly climb I ponder this question in a cyclical
fashion that so closely resembles the Mobius-Strip that is my
life. A police siren screeches violently into the air. I
usually give it a five-count before I pull over.

"Five." I find if you pull over too fast the cop will simply
bully me, mistaking my hasty response as nervousness. "Four."
Too late and he'll radio for help. "Three." How cute he's
riding my ass, I wonder if he'll pay for dinner afterwards.
"Two." I really need to invest in some new windshield wipers
before the next heavy rain, the ones dangling off my car are
crumbling to dust. "One." I slam my foot into the break, smoke
blankets outward from my wheels causing a curtain of foggy gray
to cover my rear window. Unfortunate really, I'd like to see
this guy's reaction to my Chip's style breaking abilities.
Knock! Knock! Knock! His finger strikes my window with
superfluous amounts of strength behind each knuckle. He's mad.

"Are you insane, boy?" He spits with a southern twang. My mouth
arches into a smile that sends a sarcastic message. "Well boy?
Are you insane?" He continues while I size him up, plump
stomach with an overstretched shirt, either he's newly fat or
refuses to shop at the Big and Tall. His pudgy face is covered
in stray stubble, draping under a ridiculous cowboy hat is
strands of salt and pepper hair. He clamps his meaty hands on
to the frame of my open car window exposing his unclipped
fingernails and the predictable absence of a wedding ring.

"Am I insane? Actually I'm still waiting for the test results."
My eyes lock on to his, a maneuver that reaffirms my lack of
fear. "They were running a special, something about buy one get
one free." My voice echoes with a faux southern accent.

"What?" He scoffs.

"They cured the Chlamydia in time. Which reminds me has your
mother seen a doctor?"

"License and registration." His grip tightens as anger floods
from his every word. Lying on the seat next to me is my license
and registration or at least what passes as it. I get pulled
over five or six times a day and thus keeping it in the glove
box is a bit redundant.

"Here you go officer… Now don't you go let those confusin'
words scare ya boy." Each word that leaves my mouth is ample
with southern accent goodness. "I'm sittin' right here for ya
if those pesky alphabeticals make you angry at the world.
Remember, English is our friend." The last guy to witness this
routine slipped up and hit me. He slowly treads away from my
window, stiff with each step. This cop is most definitely on
the cusp of breaking down. "Umm… 'scuse me officer, while yer
back there you mind breakin' out the squeegee and cleanin' my
rear window, all the smoke mucked it up. Thanks a lot sport."
Wait for it… Take the bait… He stops dead in his tracks and
unbuckles his night stick. I've never actually been Rodney
King'd before, this should be an interesting experience.
Smashing glass blasts into my back seat, the sudden crack jolts
my attention toward it. His night stick is held in the space my
window once occupied.

"Should be all clear now." The officer calmly whispers as he
lowers his baton out of sight. That bastard, it's a good thing
he's paying for it. The officer returns to the window,
"Anything else I can do for ya?" He leans in.

"You can say goodnight." I wave my hand over his face and
within seconds his eyes roll back into his head, exposed now
are his milky whites which soon after are hidden by his eye
lids. Instantly his body goes limp and his face busts against
the door of my Mustang Shelby. I don't have to wave my hand to
make that happen I just find that it looks cool.

Stealing from cops is one of the many ways I bankroll this
operation. Despite being under the employ of the heavens, I'm
not given a lot of monetary return and I find that occasionally
bending a commandment or two makes up for it. I can easily
justify it by maintaining a few ground rules. One of them
requires that the officer show aggression before I cast him to
sleep and play pickpocket. Pissing them off is something I do
for fun and it has a purpose, other than being better than sex
I find it makes a great security precaution. What officer will
submit a tape into evidence featuring him busting out a car
window? None is the answer you're looking for. As my door
creeks open I come to the conclusion that perhaps this venture
may have cost me more than I would earn overall, but to be
fair, I've done this for over forty years and rarely have they
hurt the car.

"Officer Michaels" I utter as my hands slip out of his pants
with wallet in tow. Cash bulges out of it as it is split open.
"This is a lot of green for a cop's salary." I pluck out the
crisp dollar bills taking cursory stock in what's available,
several hundreds, and mix up of low bills. Normally I leave the
cash, only taking credit cards and things that only financially
affect the system, NOT the individual. I make an exception for
dirty cops and with that I crunch the bills into the pocket of
my hooded jacket and proceed to fumble through the remainder. I
uncover a few receipts, a condom, a couple of credit cards and
his driver's license.

"Theodore Michaels… Ted Michaels. It was nice to meet you Ted,
call this stereotype tax, it's higher than usual due to the
fact it looks like you came tumbling out of a CMT video." My
mouth twists into a smirk while I push my fingers behind the
plastic window in the leather bi-fold and slip the license out.
Call it a trophy, or perhaps me keeping tabs on a corrupt cop.
Whatever justification could be made, the simple fact is Mr.
Michaels is going to have to stand in line at the DMV for two
hours tomorrow and the thought of that is priceless. After
removing the series of plastic Visa and Mastercards, I finally
reach the last part of my ritual. A standard issue berretta is
tucked safely in his holster. I pull it free and snappily
rotate it before my eyes.

My powder blue Shelby is a 67' and has been with me since the
beginning. Living a life as unstable as mine, it's good to have
something that remains static and Elle (that's the car) is
every bit of my world. I pop open a crimson colored lid,
revealing the contents of my trunk, crates of ammo, artifacts
of different origins and mythologies, a silver ornate box and a
massive pile of Berettas. I lazily drop the gun onto the pile
and watch it click its way down the stack.

"Welcome to the family. My name is Greyson."

I've conducted enough business for today, the road calls for
me. I return to the driver's seat of my car and grip the
steering wheel with my left hand and with the right I jam a key
into the ignition. I twist it, spurring life into Elle and just
before cranking her into gear I make notice of the decaying
windshield wipers and cast out a smile.

"Might as well…" I whisper.

About thirty minutes have passed and I now drive aimlessly
throughout the Edinburg countryside. I don't have any
particular destination, I simply go. That's my job description.
I drag, throughout the free world, a box of something wicked.
It goes by many names, but the one most common is the Heart of
Darkness. Many origins enshroud it, but honestly the man
upstairs seems to be the only one who could tell you truth from
farce. Why not keep it in a vault or under maximum security
lock down? It's not nearly that simple. Outside of being
constantly sought after by bad men and cults, the Heart has a
power of its own, a sort of dark radiation that bleeds into the
souls of surrounding mortals corrupting and drowning them in
sin. This factor makes it easy to find by those in search of
it, but not nearly as easy as its other charming quality. Any
object within a certain radius of it has the essence drained
from it. People wither and age, plants and animals are reduced
to decaying pulp, metals rust, and energy itself is sucked from
existence. Hence the constant replacing of car parts, speaking
of which, I really should thank Officer Ted for the wipers.
They didn't quite connect to the car in the way they should
have but after little retrofitting they worked just fine. And I
mean besides, I'm just going to have to replace them in a week.
The Heart doesn't really have any effect on me at least not
visibly, thanks to the regenerative nature of being ageless and
as for the induction of dark urges, let's just say I have
idiotic amounts of stubborn willpower.

After doing this for forty years you have places that you
routinely go to. Mathias always gives me shit about it. "Keep
off the radar." Or "Leave no sign" are some of his greatest
hits. Mathias is for lack of a better term, my handler and it
just so happens that he's a Seraphim… For those of you not
savvy that means angel. He doesn't take in to account that
humans are, by nature, a social lot. Now I know technically I'm
not human anymore, but I'm not so far gone that I don't
experience the same emotions or harbor the same tendencies.
Which reminds me, I really need to get laid some time soon.

As I said, routine pit stops. The one coming up on my left is
Sal's Gas and Guzzle. Sal has been dead for eleven years.
Nowadays his daughter runs the place, and does it efficiently,
but if I'm going to start singing her praises I can't leave out
her greatest quality, her ass.

I walk through the door of Sal's Gas and Guzzle, above my head
a jingling bell rattles, signifying my presence. Mara stands
outstretched behind the counter attempting to fumble a carton
of cigarettes into its designated home, her dainty figure is
wrapped with a loose white shirt and the kind of blue jeans
that look painted on. My eyes fix themselves on a part of her
anatomy that previously I mentioned my adoration for. Weaving
illusions, putting people to sleep, igniting around me a shower
of gleaming cinders, these are things I specialize in and yet
she's the one with the power right now.

"Greyson?" She says while twirling to face me.

"Mara… Hey…"

"The first taste is free, next time I start the clock and
charge you by the minute." She smiles, every word resonating
sarcasm.

My gaze meets hers as I confidently stride to the counter. I
slip out of my pocket the cash Officer Ted graciously donated
and pound it onto the wood top dividing me from Mara. I slither
my hand away from the bills exposing their individual monetary
values.

"You may want close the store." I whisper with depth in my
voice. Mara directs her beautiful blues to the mess of hundreds
lying curled before her. Like a game of chess, she ponders her
next move. The curvature of her face is slender with brown hair
strung into a pony tail. She's the kind of gorgeous you find
next door, like the tomboy neighbor girl that grew into the
body of a sexy woman. Her eyes escape mine and before drawing
out a reply her mouth makes a quivering motion.

"Someone's stealing your car."

Bloody hell.

I can just hear Mathias' response to this one. He'll self
righteously spew out in his droll angelic voice, "I told you
Greyson, you must remove yourself from the grid." My mind
reruns this small string of thoughts a thousand times over as I
tear away from the counter and bolt outside. A small teenage
hooligan dangles out the passenger-side window of my beautiful
blue Elle. He lets out a cackle as my Shelby bursts to life and
rampages out of the parking lot. With only a few seconds left
as my car and its new passengers shrink in the distance I take
stock of all I can. The kid I could see has spiky black hair,
little prepubescent patches of facial hair, metal rings and
studs jut out of his face, most notably the area between his
eyes.

"You!" A voice fires at me from outside my immediate vision, I
whip my head in the direction of its progenitor. Officer
Michaels throws his car door open and slams his black boot onto
the ground "Hands Up!" He belts out with fury overflowing from
his mouth

"Why? You're not armed." I casually approach him. He pulls his
fire red face out of the car and accompanying it is a police
grade shotgun. I backpedal… Fast. Gripping the plastic handle
he pumps the gun into ready mode, sending into the air one of
the scariest clicks I've ever heard in my life. Did he track me
down? I push my body against the side of a canned cola machine.
Magic is potent, but so is a blast of buckshot. I could make
him perceive his shotgun as a boa constrictor but weaving an
illusion that complex would require a good thirty seconds of
uninterrupted eye contact, unfortunately Mr. Michaels has about
ten milliseconds of patience.

"What happens after ten seconds?" Before I finish a loud boom
attacks my hearing and the cola machine tremors against my
back. I hear the sound of pulsing electricity and bits of
plastic dance across the pavement. "Not to be a stickler, but
you forgot to read the machine its rights." If before I thought
this cop could have been corrupt that last move more than
validated my suspicions.

"Ten!" He cocks his shotgun. "Nine!" Okay think Greyson, while
creaming him with a ball of smoldering death could be effective
in the short term, you'd have to deal with more cops and also
an extremely dissatisfied Mathias. His feet continue to crunch
into the pavement, "Eight." He rounds the machine with the
business side of his barrel trained on me. Casting him to sleep
would render him without control of that pop machine murdering
toy of his. If it happens to have a hair trigger, losing
control could be a bad thing for me. I could try to generate a
force field to obstruct the blast, but there's no guarantee I
could throw together enough energy to stop it in time. Then
something squeaks into my mind, an obvious solution.

"Not that you care officer, but some angsty teenage assholes
just made off with my car."

"Seven. You think I give a shit. Six."

I nod my head, I anticipated that response "Well considering
that's where your belongings are, I'd take at least a passing
interest in it." The officer hears my words and takes a moment
to dissect the possibilities.

"You're lying." He spits as I reach into my back pocket. "Not
so fast! Hand in the air!"

"I'm reaching for my wallet. You have me dead bang, I'm not
going to do anything stupid." My wallet is tightly lodged into
my jean pocket and with some light jostling I pull it free.
"Here." I say while throwing it too him. He catches it with one
hand while leaving the other fixed on the shotgun and it fixed
on me. He tries to rummage through it using one hand all while
oscillating his attention between me and the wallet.

"See… Nothing. Unlike your happy hicktown ass I don't leave a
massive lump of cash in my wallet." Just as expected he leers
at me with anger spewing from his eyes and then returns his
glance to my wallet. He sifts for a second and looks in my
direction once more. He jerks his head back and darts his
attention wildly in every direction while a pale white tone
dominates his face. I just needed a few seconds of eye contact
to weave together something simple. Snakes and complex
illusions take more time to mold into perceived existence,
however making something once visible, transparent… That
doesn't take nearly as much effort.

"What the… How did he?" He trembles with confusion while
spinning to analyze the area behind him. He completes his three
hundred and sixty degree turn and I snap my fist into his face
leveling him to the ground all the meanwhile restoring my
natural opacity level. There's more than one way to put someone
to sleep. After collecting the shotgun and my wallet I take a
few steps away when a thought hits me… Much like I hit Officer
Cowboy over there… I don't have car anymore and without
skipping a beat a deviously fun solution presents itself.

I'd borrow my good friend the angry-gun-toting-cowboy-cop's
police cruiser. I nestle my rear-end into the seat in a
vaudevillian manner. I'm perfectly aware no one is watching I
just really commit to sarcastic gestures. Hanging from my
finger tips is the cluster of keys I fished out of Ted the
Cop's pocket. I listen enthusiastically as it each key clings
into one another, much like a wind chime. I really need to
thank Ted for lending me his wheels and with that I cram one of
the keys into the ignition and start what could be a very long
chase.